There's a fierce pride that comes with growing up in Northeast Ohio. A pride that masks a deeper shame. Cleveland sports culture — the most fanatically loyal, deeply pained and exuberantly joyful in America — is our communal wrestling with this pride and shame.

We have a lingering insecurity about living in a place that the world seems to have passed by. A fear that, because crumbling warehouses and rusted factories outnumber yoga studios and organic groceries, we're not going to play an integral part in the world's future.

This unique pride and shame feels stronger in Summit Lake than anywhere in Northeast Ohio. We're the poorest neighborhood in Akron.

An abandoned Firestone factory that once fueled the most booming neighborhood in America's most booming city now looms over crumbling houses. Houses full of individuals self-medicating trauma, mental illness and destitute poverty with crack and meth.

Houses full of young kids cultivating a fierce pride to cover the shame of our neighborhood. Streets full of teens doing all they can to stay out of the house. Littering the streets, as though it's a defiant act of self-assertion when, more realistically, it's a tacit admission that the streets are already littered with crack vials.

Yet we're all damn proud to be surviving and thriving in such a place. And these young people have more character and genuine investment in their neighborhood than anyone I've ever met.

More importantly, they stand for each other above all else. It's a communal bond unlike anything I've seen in California or New York. Somehow, it's a thin veneer of pride and shame that fuels real hope. Even if it may be born of fear.

We're the neighborhood where LeBron James, as a Summit Lake Hornet, grew from a vulnerable, under-resourced boy into a man destined to become the world's most dominant athlete. A boy, bouncing between homes as his single mom lived between checks. A boy already well on his way to becoming inner-city Ohio's first billionaire.

As the pastor of a little church in Summit Lake, and the director of the community's teen center, it's my job to transition this cycle of pride-shame into genuine self-esteem. It's not easy. Besides personally struggling to find enough faith or skill for the task, I don't always feel like I've got enough ammunition.

Where is there genuine hope in Northeast Ohio? Why shouldn't our young people be angry? ALL of our guys idolize LeBron. And I've spent countless hours persuading them, in vain, not to idolize an athlete. A millionaire. A deserter.

During our leadership courses, it pains me to hear nine out of 10 young adults tell me about how they plan to join the NBA.

And so it was with genuine shock that I was overjoyed to hear about LeBron James coming back to Northeast Ohio. LeBron has turned himself into an icon of community and transcendence. In a community that struggles to visualize hope, such an icon is an answered prayer.

In his essay 'I'm Coming Home,' LeBron says that service to Northeast Ohio is more important than basketball.

That there's something special that unites us here. A unique sense of community. That one championship here would be more valuable than 5,6,7 ... championships elsewhere. For this community to triumph would mean something bigger. That community is more significant that money, luxury or fame.

What does LeBron James mean to young men in inner-city Akron? He means that because these young men are growing up in such adversity they are more likely to rock the world. With his return home, LeBron James means that whatever greatness or wealth or strength these young people might achieve, this achievement is only valuable insofar as it enriches our home. Our family. Our community.

I have no idea what LeBron James is about. But I know that LeBron James is becoming an idol in the best sense. A reminder that our seemingly vain pride and shame may actually be the springboard to building a beautiful community — so long as we seek to glorify one another. An idol who inspires young people that nothing is impossible.

That the impoverished rust belt of America, once the cardiovascular system of our nation's economy, might still be our nation's heart.

The icon of LeBron James reminds us that the children of our nation's greatest adversities may harbor our greatest potential. Not just for hoop dreams or hip hop stardom. But for constructing loving, lasting community.

Thanks for coming home, LeBron.

Andrew Kishman is the pastor of Miller Avenue United Church of Christ in Akron.

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